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“Yup, come on. Let’s sit over here.” I lead him closer to the center of the yard where the grass is the thickest and plop down rather ungracefully. I never understood those girls who could just flit around place to place with all the coordination and grace in the world. I’m more like a wrecking ball or a bull in a china shop. I blame it on my tall height, large frame, and my general attitude of not giving a shit.
Oliver sits down next to me, so close that I’m a little uncomfortable. I try to subtly scooch my butt a few inches away but give up when he just does the exact same thing, plastering himself to my side. Taking the new sketchpad I flip to the first page and hand it over to him along with a pencil.
“What am I supposed to do?” He furrows his brow and squints at the paper with the pencil in his hand.
“Draw whatever you want,” I say with a gentle smile. He’s taking this so seriously that it’s kind of cute and I don’t think I’ve ever called a kid cute before in my life.
“But I don’t know how.” His voice comes out as a bit of a whine and it almost makes me smile. Almost.
“You don’t have to know how, it doesn’t have to be perfect. You can draw anything. You could draw that flower over there,” I point to one of the only flowers that escaped Oliver’s Godzillalike trek through the yard, “or somewhere you’ve been, your favorite toy, or even something completely made up that no one’s ever seen before.” He’s eying me suspiciously so I grab my own sketch pad and flip through a few pages before I find what I’m looking for. It’s a crude sketch of a huge bird with eyes way too large for its head and balancing on one long skinny leg that I did one day when I was feeling a bit whimsical.
Oliver’s eyes widen as he looks at the drawing. “Okay, I can do that.” He immediately goes to work on the blank page, and I flip to an clean one in my own book. I decide that I might as well sketch this kid out. I paint people all the time, they’re my favorite subjects, but I’m not sure if I’ve ever done a portrait of a child. Maybe for a class at some point but I don’t remember ever willingly doing it. Probably because I didn’t want to be around one long enough to observe them.
We’re both working away quietly on our own projects when I hear a sniffle come from him. Then another. I look over and he’s wiping tears away from his eyes. Oh shit, what did I do?
“Oliver, what’s wrong?”
“I messed up!” he practically wails then proceeds to burst into full on tears. Oh no, oh shit. I don’t know what to do with this. Where the fuck is his uncle anyway?
“It’s okay Oliver, I mess up all the time.” I try to gently pat his back but the move comes off less comforting and more stiff and awkward.
His sobs subside a little and he looks at me with his tear-stained face and for some reason I get a funny feeling in my chest. I don’t like that he’s upset.
“You do?” He asks.
“Of course. That’s how you learn. Besides, some of my best art has come from making mistakes.” He’s eying me like he doesn’t quite believe what I’m saying. “Plus, if you mess up whenyou’re painting you can just paint over it. And do you know what you can do if you mess up a drawing?”
He just shakes his head at me, and I give him a little smile. I look down at what he’s done so far and there isn’t much there yet. Just some shapes and shading which I’m a little surprised by because shading seems a bit advanced for a kid that’s… however old he is. “You just do this.” I reach over, grab the page, and yank it out of the book with a tearing sound. Then I crumple it up and toss it over my shoulder and give him a smile.
He’s looking at me wide eyed and I hope I didn’t fuck up. If he starts crying again, I’m tossing him back over the fence for his uncle to deal with. Instead, he lets out a laugh, tears another page from the book and tosses it over his own shoulder. I can’t help laughing with him. What can I say, it was cute. Damn it, there’s that word again.
“See, now you can just try again,” I tell him. With a look of determination on his face he picks up his pencil from where he dropped it in his distress and starts drawing again while I study him for a moment. It’s still not apparent what he’s drawing but it’s clear he has something specific in mind. He’s not scribbling on the page like I’d expect of a child his age, but making calculated, precise movements with his pencil. I go back to my own work and after about five minutes I’ve got a decent rough rendering of Oliver’s face. I glance back over at what he’s working on and am a little taken aback.
He’s clearly drawn some kind of room. Maybe a living room? It looks small and there aren’t many elements to it. I can’t tell if that’s because he hasn’t gotten to it yet or because the room he’s drawing really is that bare. A sofa is against the wall with something coming out of it. Maybe stuffing? There’s also a coffee table that’s askew in the middle of the room, covered in what appear to be empty glasses and bottles. He’s made dark spots all over the floor and I’m not sure what they are supposed to be.There are piles of what I assume is laundry throughout and what looks like a very dead plant in the corner.
This is way advanced. Like super advanced. He shouldn’t be able to draw something like this. Even if he told me he had been drawing all his life, which he said he hadn’t, there’s no way he should be able to draw like this. I didn’t produce something with this level of detail and shading until at least middle school.
Besides being blown away by his obvious natural talent, I’m puzzled by the actual subject matter. Did he make this room up? It can’t be next door because all these houses have the same floor plans, and it doesn’t look right. Maybe it’s something he saw on TV. Either way, the room looks barren, cold, and sad.
“Oliver,” I say resting my hand on top of his to still the pencil. “Where is this?” He just shrugs at me and stares unwaveringly at his drawing for a moment before answering, “Home.”
I open my mouth to question him further when I hear a frantic shout. “Oliver! Oliver where are you?” The voice is coming from the yard next door and it’s clearly Detective Dickwad—uh, I mean Carson—looking for his nephew.
“He’s over here!” I shout back and start to stand, brushing loose grass off my jeans.
Carson’s head pops over the fence telling me two things. One, he’s really fucking tall. And two, he’s just as hot as I remember. Damn it.
His eyes narrow in on me. “What are you doing with my nephew?” Well, at least he’s still a dick.
“Excuse you. I’m not doing anything with your nephew. He came over here through the broken fence,” I point to the space with the missing slats, “and I’ve been entertaining him since apparently nobody was watching him.” His cheeks pinken slightly at that. Score one for Bianca. I want to fist pump but now doesn’t seem to be the time.
“Iwaswatching him. He was supposed to be playing in the backyard.” He levels a stern look at Oliver. “I just fell asleep on the couch for a few minutes.” He makes his way over to the hole in the fencing and tries to squeeze through but gets stuck around his broad shoulders. He keeps pushing and I’m pretty sure he’s going to damage the fence further if he doesn’t stop.
“You know, there’s an actual gate you can walk through.” I nod indicating the gate that opens to the front yard. With a grunt of frustration, he disappears and I can hear his own gate slam before mine opens and he comes charging into my backyard like a sexy angry papa bear. God, what is wrong with me?
“Why haven’t you fixed that fence?” he asks accusingly. It’s like every time I think he’s hot he has to go and open his mouth and ruin it.
“Why haven’tyoufixed the fence? You’re just as responsible for it as I am.”
